


When The Wind Blows

by Anonymous



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, ghosts and hauntings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 08:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30119892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “… what the man's name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace…”The Lord of the Rings: The Two TowersBook 4 Ch. 3 "Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit"The North Wind brings strange news to a Southron woman.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2021





	When The Wind Blows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Torpi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torpi/gifts).



> Thanks to my beta.

The wind had swung round to the north during the day. Allia always hated it when the wind was in the north. It howled unpleasantly down the narrow gap between her house and the next, and no matter how tightly she wrapped herself up when she went out to draw water from the well, the wind’s cold fingers always managed to find a gap and run their icy tips over her skin. From time to time, the wind also carried with it a fine black dust that seemed to get everywhere and make the air taste like bitter almonds.

As dusk fell, Allia made sure the storm shutters on the doors and windows were fixed in place and then drew the embroidered hangings, but the oil lamp still guttered as she eased herself awkwardly down into her chair. Doing her best to ignore the wind’s moans, she rested her hands on her swollen belly and crooned a lullaby. It was more than half a year since Krastak had left with the rest of the army and she hadn’t even suspected she was with child when they’d said their goodbyes. She wondered where he was now and if he’d be back before the baby was born.

Above her head, something thudded on the flat roof. Allia frowned: the cushions and low table they used on warm evenings had all been brought down months ago, and she’d checked this afternoon before she bolted the trapdoor that the pole for the laundry line was stored securely.

Another thud — almost like someone had stamped a foot — and then two more in quick succession, as if whoever was up there was growing impatient. Sighing, Allia hauled herself out of her chair and slowly climbed the stairs in the corner of the room that led to the roof.

The wind forced itself through the gap as she cautiously lifted the trapdoor, a sharp gust that blew out the oil lamp set on the table below and, for a moment, left her night-blind. Over the rattle of the wind, she heard another thump from the far side of the roof. Steeling herself, she took another step upwards, pushing the trapdoor further open, until the wind caught at it, snatching it from her hand and slamming it fully open. Above her, innumerable stars pricked out against a clear night sky.

The wind tore strands of hair from her braid and whipped them across her face as she clambered the rest of the way out. Peering around in the dim light, she saw the laundry pole was still in its place and there was no sign of—.

Something shimmered on the far side of the roof and was gone. Allia closed her eyes and shook her head. Just a sand devil whipped up by the wind, she told herself. Just her mind playing tricks, making her think the swirl of dust was the shadowy form of a man.

Another thud. She opened her eyes to take another look — and froze. There, wavering in the gusting wind, but quite distinct, was a man’s shape. It was dust, the motes swirling within it — but not stirred by the northern wind. The dust obeyed some other force. 

Krastak, she thought to herself. His height, his broad shoulders, his dark hair braided back. A glimpse of white teeth in the middle of his beard. The saw-toothed outline of the overlapping plates of the bronze armour he’d worn as he marched away. Even a flash of red at his waist where he’d tied the scarf she’d woven for him.

Black dust from the north; white dust from the plastered walls of the houses; yellow dust from the slabs that paved the roads; red dust from the fields. It was dust. Just dust. That hung and wavered and reached out its arms to her, beseeching and imploring — and then a gust of wind slapped at her face and filled it with a stench of blood and dung and rotten meat so strong it made her stagger and clutch at the parapet to steady herself.

And when she looked up again, there was nothing. The shadowy figure was gone.

Her heart hammering in her chest, Allia groped her way back down the stairs, pulled the trapdoor down behind her and slammed the bolt closed.

***

The baby was born a month later, a healthy, squalling boy-child. It wasn’t until another half year had passed that a storyteller, hitching a lift with a caravan coming down from the north, stood up in the marketplace and gave out the news that the fine army that had marched away were dead, all dead.

The storyteller’s face had a greyish cast that was not from the dust of the journey, and there were none of the usual storyteller’s flourishes and tricks as he told of the strong magic that the white devils from the north had used to destroy their armies. Enchantment that had hidden the Enemy’s relief forces until they were falling on the flanks of their proud legions. Dark sorcery that had filled the ships of their allies with the Enemy’s men. Enchanted arrows that had felled the great war-beasts with a single dart.

His words were almost drowned out by the sound of wailing that rose up around Allia. Women were sinking to the ground or clutching on to each other to hold themselves up. Allia held baby Kraslen more tightly to her shoulder and thought: at least I have this. At least I have this to remember him by.

In a day or so, the caravan and the storyteller moved on, and life moved on, too, because it must. Women had always done men’s work when the menfolk went to war, but now the younger women — those who had no children yet, and those who had no husband yet, nor were like to — took on all the work the men would not return to do and, in time, made it women’s work. Boy-children grew up, slowly and slowly, until the oldest of them was old enough, in four or five years, to start to sire their own sons. Grandfathers who had been too old or too unfit for war were able to pass on their skills before death took them. Their people would be changed forever, but they would endure.

Another half turn of the seasons had gone by after the storyteller had told his news, and there came a night when the wind again blew from the north and wailed around the walls. Allia, settling Kraslen in his crib and sitting down to ease her back, stiff from bending over all day in the fields, heard a thud on the roof above.

Her heart skipped a beat. She _knew_ there was nothing loose up there. 

And the sound came again.

This time, she snuffed out the oil lamp before she made her way up the stairs, and got a firm grip on the trapdoor as she lifted it and peered out at the wind-whipped roof.

He was clearer this time, more solid. Or maybe it was just that she saw him more clearly now — _hoping_ if not quite expecting — and filling in the gaps from her memory of how handsome he had looked dressed in his gleaming armour and with the red ochre daubed along his high cheekbones.

The figure held out its hands to her, as if asking her to come to him. But when she pushed the trapdoor further open so she could climb out, he shook his head. He put his arms together and mimed rocking a baby and Allia understood. She nodded at him.

Making sure the trapdoor was fixed open, she hurried back down the stairs. In the dark, she groped her way to Kraslen’s crib and, taking care not to wake him, lifted him up and carried him up to the roof.

Krastak’s face split into a grin, his teeth glinting white in the moonlight, as Allia held out his sleeping son for him to see.

Then a great gust of wind came, and suddenly sand was stinging against Allia’s skin and Kraslen was awake and letting out a high thin wail. The wavering form of his father had gone as if it had never been. 

Clutching Kraslen close to her body and doing her best to soothe him, Allia hurried back inside.

***

Another turn of the seasons passed. The wind once more blew from the north. This time, Allia was sitting ready in the dark, with the lamp quenched and Kraslen asleep against her shoulder, when Krastak’s summons came.

He again smiled when she showed him Kraslen and how much he’d grown. But then he held out his hand, beckoning to her. Allia approached carefully, remembering what had happened the last time, but Krastak beckoned her still closer, until he could reach out and draw her into his embrace.

***

The next morning, Allia woke — feeling well-used and content — to find the wind had died down and that her bed was filled with sand: black and white, pale yellow and red. And in the years after, she never minded when the wind blew from the north or having to shake the sand from her bed.


End file.
